Shadows Are Red in a White Room
by YellowVixen
Summary: The white room Arthur wakes up in reflects his mind perfectly... including the shadow in the corner. As he begins to piece what happened together, he remembers something that completely destroys his already tormented mind.


The ceiling was white.

He sat up. The walls were white too.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, looking around the empty 'box'. It was completely sparse, except for the plain bed he was sitting on.

"Hello...?"

His hands unconsciously crept up to grip the sides of his head, and he pulled his hair slightly.

Why was he here?

Where was 'here'?

He tugged his hair more, until the pain burned.

Who was he?

He let go of his hair to run his hands over his face, trying to get an idea of his features. The only thing he could properly determine where large eyebrows. Nothing else distinguishable.

He stood up and looked down at himself. Under the clothes, he seemed to be quite slender.

The clothes. White trousers and a white top. He would have thought white was the only colour he was capable of seeing, if not for his skin, though it was pale enough to almost match.

He turned around, and noticed a difference in the wall. A door, with a small slit in it. He went to look out. More white doors.

Maybe this place was just 'white'.

'The White Room'. The name pleased him, though he didn't know why. He didn't know anything.

 ** _"Killer."_**

He turned to the corner, eyes wide. There was a shadow there, and it _spoke_.

 ** _"Murderer."_**

He shrank back, back to the bed, away from the corner, away from the shadow, AWAY FROM _IT._

 ** _"Slaughterer."_**

He curled up on the bed, shaking. The shadow grew, taking up his vision, taunting him with names. Names that weren't his.

It was almost upon him when he screamed back.

"NOOOO!" His arms were above his head, hands clasped tightly together at the nape of his neck. "THAT'S NOT ME!" His breath came in short gasps. "I'M..." But who was he?

The shadow continued to advance.

"ARTHUR!" That was his name. "I'M ARTHUR! _NOT_ KILLER!"

The shadow didn't stop, it only grew darker.

Arthur screamed, his eyes squeezed shut against the dark, until he heard the door open, and someone grabbed his upper arm, and something sharp jabbed into his shoulder.

.:.

He woke up.

The ceiling was still white.

The shadow was still there.

.:.

This continued for days, maybe even weeks, _or even months –_ before Arthur realised that if he didn't want to be put to sleep, he had to stop screaming.

It was hard.

The shadow was there all the time, whispering, telling him what he was, that he was **_evil,_** that he should be locked up in a dark room **_forever_**. It took all Arthur's strength not to shriek at it to stop. Instead he whimpered, curled up in a foetal position on the corner of his bed, back pressed up into the corner of the room.

Eventually, Arthur didn't even do that. He convinced himself that the shadow wouldn't, _couldn't_ , do anything to him, and it didn't. It just whispered, but whispers could be ignored.

Most of the time.

He just closed his eyes, lay down, and went about assuring his wildly beating heart, his shaking limbs, and his untamed thoughts that there was truly nothing to be worried about.

The 'someone' who had first gripped his arm had told him he was making progress. That is he carried on this way, if Arthur ignored the shadow, it would leave him, and he could leave The White Room.

He wanted that. He wanted to go outside, see the world, and find his memories. Arthur didn't know what the world looked like, but he _missed_ it. His memories were another matter.

.:.

After more days, or weeks, _or months –_ Arthur was allowed out The White Room. He was led down the white passage; a gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him; a smile directed at him, soothing. It wasn't really soothing. But it was meant to be. He hoped.

He was led to one of the white doors. Inside was a single table with two chairs facing each other. A Black camera eyed the scene from the top left corner.

Arthur was prompted to sit, with firm hands pushing him down slightly. A sense of déjà vu took hold of him, and his muscles tensed. The shadow was still there, behind him, whispering.

 ** _Killer._**

 ** _Murderer._**

 ** _Slaughterer._**

The first man exited the room, and was replaced with a fatter, kinder looking man, carrying a brown case. Arthur tried to relax, but his nerves were tingling, and he couldn't get comfortable. The fat man sat down opposite, his case on the floor, interlocked his fingers and rested them on the table, before looking across at Arthur. He looked back, vaguely confused.

"So, Arthur Kirkland. I hear you've been getting better?"

Arthur Kirkland. That was his name. His full name. _Kirkland_. The name fit neatly into an empty gap in his memory.

The shadow kept whispering.

"Well?" Oh. He was expected to answer.

"Y-yes... Sir." The formality felt necessary, somehow.

"Oh please, call me Michael. If you must, call me Mr Johnson, but no 'sir's." _Johnson._ The name was almost familiar. Almost.

Mr Johnson straightened, before leaning back in his chair, his eyes looking over Arthur, assessing him, criticising, _looking straight through him._

"Sorry, s – uh, Mr J-johnson."

"You don't seem very sure of yourself."

Arthur took a breath, steeling himself. "I am. I'm well enough to go outside." It was a long shot, but that's what he wanted. Mr Johnson looked faintly amused.

"If you think you're well enough to leave, I think you're well enough to receive some information." He took out a sheet of paper from his case, and held it up for Arthur to see. There was a picture of a young man on it. "Do you know this man?"

Of course he did.

That was...

Cheeky smile.

Blue eyes, glasses.

Messy, dark blonde hair.

That one strand that won't lie flat.

 _But what was his name?_

"This is Alfred Franklin Jones. You were acquaintances, I believe... Or was it something, 'more'?"

Arthur silently reached for the picture. 'Acquaintances'. He snorted slightly, the corners of his lips pulling up. They were much more than that. He remembered now. Lovers, even. Not that either of them would admit it to anyone else.

Alfred had stayed by his side the whole time. Because he _knew_ , he _understood_ , and best of all, he _didn't care_. He didn't care that Arthur was considered insane, didn't care that he occasionally had fits, didn't even care that he could be violent.

 ** _Killer._**

 ** _Murderer._**

 ** _Slaughterer._**

NO!

Arthur turned his head, away from the picture. In doing so, he came face to face with the shadow.

It smiled.

 ** _Killer._**

 ** _Murderer._**

 ** _Slaughterer._**

It's eyes were blue.

Arthur's eyes widened. He froze.

He remembered.

He screamed.

.:.

Arthur had been in the kitchen, attempting to make lunch, when a fit started. First, it was just a twitch of his left hand, but it had travelled, and grown. His whole arm writhed, and soon he was crouching on the floor, spasms going through his body every few seconds. He had seen the shadows flit around the room, and heard the voices. Some whispered, some screamed, some howled. All of them told him to do the same thing, something he hadn't wanted to do, NEVER wanted to do.

But they tormented him.

So he had to do it, didn't he?

Alfred had entered the flat just as his convulsions were lessoning.

He had gone into the kitchen, and watched, with a certain degree of calmness, as Arthur picked himself off the floor. It had happened before; this wasn't anything to be worried about. Or so he had thought.

As Alfred had turned to kick his shoes off at the front door, because Arthur hated muddy shoe prints, Arthur himself had twisted to reach the nearest kitchen drawer, and opened it. It had been full of cutlery. He had gritted his teeth, vision already blurring with tears at the thought of what he was about to do.

Alfred had come in, and playfully asked him what he was doing. It was enough for the shadows. Arthur had whirled around, a knife in his right hand. Alfred had immediately reacted by lifting his hands and trying to placate him. This was unusual, but not rare. Arthur usually burst into tears and crumpled to the floor before he could do anything.

This time, he had lunged forward, right hand thrown forward, wrist jerking when it had met resistance. Time had slowed.

Alfred's eyes had widened incredulously, his hands grabbing at the knife in his stomach. He had stumbled back, disbelief and shock apparent on his face. As the back of his legs had hit the table, one of his hands had fumbled to catch the edge, trying to hold himself up.

Arthur had followed. Alfred had protested feebly, legs failing. A dribble of blood had appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Again, Arthur had jerked forward. He had reached to grab the knife, ignoring Alfred's pleading and the shadows' screeches. His mind had gone into a lock-down: nothing could stop him, or change what he was about to do.

Arthur had shoved Alfred to the floor, seizing the knife, and pulled it from its fleshy sheath. The sickening squelch had brought a terrifying half grimace, half smile to his face. He had straddled him, and, easily brushed aside Alfred's weak attempt at stopping him, raised his arm. He had swiftly brought it back down, watching with fascination how the blood spluttered from the wound. Alfred's wailing had increased tenfold, echoing through the flat, crying out in agony each time Arthur had stabbed him, each time getting higher. Eventually the knife had reached his neck. As it pierced through, slicing through the voice box, Alfred's howls had changed to gurgles, the blood flowing freely from the newest wound. In response, Arthur's stomach had growled in a perverted hunger. The last thing he saw was Alfred's horrified blue eyes fixing on his own feverishly bright green ones. Then, another fit had gripped his body, this time throwing him into unconsciousness.

Arthur had awoken just minutes later, to a monstrous sight. He had stabbed Alfred no less than eight times, in a perfectly straight line from his stomach to his throat. Blood was splattered over Arthur's arms, and had pooled out and covered half the floor, as well as soaking into both their clothes, staining them red. The knife had still been stuck in his neck, probably caught in between two neck bones. Alfred's face had been permanently frozen in an expression of panic and pain.

Alfred was dead.

 ** _Killer._**

 ** _Murderer._**

 ** _Slaughterer._**

The shadows had preventing Arthur from turning the knife on himself. They contracted, forming a single shadow. A familiar shape.

 _Alfred._

Arthur had screamed and wept until he was hoarse.

.:.

Coming out of his reverie, Arthur felt someone grabbed his upper arm, and something sharp jabbed into his shoulder, the pain more acute than before.

.:.

He woke up.

The ceiling was white, blank, the same as his mind.

"Hello...?"


End file.
